


Don't Bring Your Heart To A Gunfight

by maniacalslaughter



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cuban Lance (Voltron), Gender-Neutral Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Korean Keith (Voltron), Lotor is an asshole, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-04 04:22:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13356399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maniacalslaughter/pseuds/maniacalslaughter
Summary: Thirdly --- and this particular bit almost made Lance regret his moment of compassion (but it was too late now, he couldn't just drive off) --- he noticed the biker himself. The man was lean and muscular, from what Lance could tell; he was mostly clad in black leather, from his waist-length jacket right down to the laced-up combat boots on his feet. A shiny red helmet was tucked under the man's right arm. But worst of all was his face. Lance wanted to groan and slam his head against the steering wheel, because holy fuck, this dude was attractive.Lance is a member of a mob when he meets Keith, the badass art major with some problems of his own.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic basically ever, so bear with me! I'm going to have lots of barriers with my writing, between starting college soon and finishing up my high-school work, keeping this under the radar in my ultra-conservative/religious household, and actually coming up with the motivation to work on it.. :))))) Since this is entirely self-edited, any (KIND!!) corrections to grammatical/storyline errors in the comments would be greatly appreciated. And probably some help with the format itself, seeing as I cant figure out how to get the stupid italics to work, or how to indent properly, or pretty much anything...I managed to indent a lot of it by hand, but didn't have the energy to properly indent or space all the dialogue, so many apologies for that. (Edit: many thanks to the lovely person in the comments who helped me figure most of that out. :))  
> I almost tagged this Major Character Death but decided not to, since that would only be in the epilogue if I decide to write it; so if you want a perfect fairy tale ending, you may or may not want to read the (theoretical) epilogue; it'll be bittersweet. There's also going to be a lot of violence, angst, depression/ anxiety, and probably a bit of self-harm. I'm going to try to deal with a lot of "mature" life issues, so if that makes you uncomfortable, this is a warning. :)

Soft, glowing spotlights flooded Lance's vision as he crossed the stage towards the microphone stand. Nyma climbed a short set of steps to his right, her black heels clicking pleasantly against the honey-colored floorboards. A warm, hazy aura permeated the room, which was filled with a pleasantly buzzing chatter. Glancing at his partner, Lance raised an eyebrow in question. He was met with a subtle nod and faced forward once more as the quick, staccato notes of “My Way” filtered out of the speakers. The duo began to sing.  
_“And now, the end is near,_  
_And so I face the final curtain...”  
_

____

Although the lighting washed out much of the view, Lance could still make out people seated at the red-clothed tables and booths that surrounded the room. Mahogany panels rose halfway up the walls, which were clad the rest of the way up in crimson drapery and lit at convenient intervals by glittering crystal sconces. Champagne glasses and silverware clinking against china to provide the soft, elegant background noise over which their music flowed. To the far right of the dining area, out Rolo's figure shuffled at the bar, cleaning shot glasses with a practiced hand. Colorful bottles lined the shelves behind the bar, which matched the wall panels with its mahogany woodwork. Sparkles of light danced over the bottles from a large glass chandelier, bouncing off of an enormous mirror that had been placed behind the shelves “for pizzazz”. At least, that was what Lance claimed; he personally preferred to use it to check that his carefully gelled hairstyle was still in place before heading onstage.  
_“...I did what I had to do_  
_And saw it through,_  
_Without exemption...”  
_

_____ _

While his voice admittedly sounded nowhere as rumbling and mellifluous as the legendary Sinatra's, Lance liked to think that it possessed a clear, smooth quality that perfectly offset Nyma's graceful vibrato. The unlikely duo complemented each other wonderfully. Although Lance's merciless flirting often caused unnecessary tension behind the scenes, once the two singers mounted that stage, all of their metaphorical thorns vanished and their voices blended together seamlessly. This teamwork had earned Lance and Nyma their place as the top singers at Voltron, a rank that they upheld with great pride and dedication.  


Lance shot a look back over at Rolo long enough for him to sneak a wink before reverting his attention to the audience. As Voltron was one of the only bars in the city with such an elegant atmosphere, it wasn't uncommon for the venue to serve up to two hundred and fifty customers in a single night; and right now, the room was packed. The soft lull of the singers' voices added to the sense of calm, transforming what would otherwise be a bustling atmosphere into one of casual relaxation.  


As the chorus swelled, many patrons turned away from their meals to focus entirely on the performers. Nyma's figure was draped in a shimmering maroon sheath dress that accentuated her curves perfectly. Her long blonde hair curled elegantly into a smooth knot at the back of her head and sparkled with diamond pins to match her earrings. Although his partner was often the main attraction of many customers' attention, Lance didn't think he looked to shabby tonight, either. He and Nyma had gone for a color-coordinating look; he wore a tight-fitting maroon vest and a crisp white dress shirt, the sleeves casually rolled up to his elbows. Straight black dress pants with a matching pair of shoes and a bow-tie polished off the look, complimenting Lance's soft bronze skin perfectly.  


He let his hips sway slightly to the rhythm, losing himself in the music. Lance loved this feeling. He loved the buzz of adrenaline that came from singing in front of an audience even after years of experience. He loved being able to stretch his vocal cords to their fullest, to hear a clear melody flow from his body. He loved letting his voice roll as loudly as it could without being told to quiet down. Yes; Lance could truly and honestly say that he loved his job. Both aspects of it. For the Voltron bar held one enormous secret; if one pushed in just the right place along the wall in just the right way, a section of the mahogany panels would slide away, revealing a small, hidden room. This space was usually patrolled by two or three bouncers playing cards or reading books to pass the time. Underneath the floor's olive green rug, a covered trapdoor led down to Voltron's basement where the real business was conducted.  


The Voltron gang was led by Lance's bosses, Zarkon and Alfor Altea. Although the two men worked in the same profession, their personalities could not have been more different. Alfor was a kind, approachable man with a talent for scheming and planning. He had a daughter, Allura, whom he kept strictly away from the business. Although she was a few years older than Lance, he had quickly developed a dangerous crush on her as soon as he started working. This infatuation was almost immediately squashed the second Lance met Allura's boyfriend, who was very tall, very sweet, and very buff. Like her father, Allura had flawless dark skin and long, rippling silvery hair, offset perfectly by a pair of aqua blue eyes and a body sculpted by the gods themselves. Honestly, Lance didn't know how genes like that could be natural; he and Pidge often theorized that Allura's mother was an alien. He had given her space as soon as the boyfriend incident occurred, and their awkward acquaintanceship had bloomed into true friendship not long afterwards. Provided he stayed far away from Voltron matters, Lance knew that he could trust Allura with anything, and her wise advice often saved him from many a sticky situation.  


Zarkon, on the other hand, was quiet, reserved, and loyal. Unlike his partner, Zarkon encouraged his family to fully participate in the business, often leaving many extra responsibilities to his wife and son. Lance did not like his son, Lotor. Although he and Allura looked enough alike that they could have been twins, the day Lance asked Lotor for advice would be the day he laid to rest six feet under. A snarky attitude combined with ignorant bigotry and a perpetual stick up his ass made Lotor virtually impossible to get along with. It didn't help that only one source of snark could comfortably exist in a room at a time, making Lance and Lotor natural enemies from day one.  


Zarkon's wife, Haggar, was a woman who usually kept to herself, except when barking orders in a sharp voice towards her husband's lackeys. Long strands of white hair straggled down her back and she shuffled around with a hunch that Lance figured at her age could only be brought about by a history of drug abuse. Husky and gruff, her voice reminded him of a smoker's; this theory was only confirmed by the premature age lines streaking down her cheeks. She must have quit both of these habits a long time a go, however, because Lance could never detect a hint of cigarette smoke around her and her senses were always on sharp alert. 

_“...I took the blows,_  
_And did it my way!”  
_

____

The final notes soared over the audience's heads as Nyma's harmony climbed much higher than Lance could ever go. Grinning, the duo clasped hands and bowed deeply at the generous applause that filled the room.  


Several minutes later, after leaving the stage and freshening up a little in the back room, Lance walked back into the main dining room and slid over towards Rolo, who was mopping up somebody's strawberry tequila at the bar.  


“ 'Aight buddy, I'm clocking out now,” Lance declared, lifting up the coat thrown over his arm and the car keys in his hand.  
Rolo glanced up from his work.  


“Oh, is it eight thirty already?”  


“Yeah. I've got a job early tomorrow morning and I started my shift before lunch today, so Alfor gave me permission to go home.”  
The bartender nodded and picked up two empty glasses from the countertop.  


“See you later then,” he said, smiling slightly.  


Lance tapped two fingers to his forehead in salute and slipped on his coat. The cool night air outside of the bar smelled of fall leaves and the city, which was an odd combination, but brought Lance a comfortingly nostalgic feeling. He rounded the corner of the bar and slipped towards the back, where his car was parked at the very edge of the main lot. Lance unlocked his car doors, tugged off his coat, bow-tie, and vest, and rumbled off.  


Normally, the commute from work to home took Lance less than twenty minutes, allowing for traffic. On this particular night, it would take him a grand total of an hour and fifteen minutes; the reason for which was a goddamned motorcycle. He had just wrestled his way over on the expressway when Lance noticed, several hundred feet in front of him, a biker on the shoulder of the road who appeared to be in distress. Usually Lance would just zip on by and tell himself that somebody else would arrive soon to help the poor bloke. However, perhaps because he was feeling particularly at peace with the world tonight, or perhaps because of a strange intuition, he decided to pull over.  


As his car approached the cyclist, Lance noticed several things. Firstly, he noticed the nice-ass motorcycle. Lance wondered what her name was --- because, honestly, it would be a crime not to name a machine so fine. The bike was light-framed and rode low to the ground, with a sleek black frame and shiny chrome workings exposed to the open air. Her kickstand had been lowered, and somebody was leaning against the side, casually waiting for Lance to arrive.  


Secondly, Lance noticed the skid marks on the pavement leading up to the motorcycle and the black charring that coated what he guessed was the engine. Otherwise, there seemed to be no other injuries; the rest of the bike was intact and its driver appeared unharmed.  


Thirdly --- and this particular bit almost made Lance regret his moment of compassion (but it was too late now, he couldn't just drive off) --- he noticed the biker himself. The man was lean and muscular, from what Lance could tell; he was mostly clad in black leather, from his waist-length jacket right down to the laced-up combat boots on his feet. A shiny red helmet was tucked under the man's right arm. But worst of all was his face. Lance wanted to groan and slam his head against the steering wheel, because holy fuck, this dude was attractive. Long, wavy black hair hung down over the man's forehead and past his neck, sticking out over the collar of the leather jacket. His high cheekbones and sharp jawline contrasted the softness of his other facial features, which if Lance had to guess, looked Korean. He had an eyebrow raised in curiosity as Lance steeled himself to get out of the car. Hot people: his greatest weakness.  


_Don't be obnoxious,_ Lance reminded himself. _This guy probably just wants to get home in peace and quiet._  
He sighed and opened his door.  


__

“Need a hand?” Lance called, slamming the door shut, leaving the engine running so that his headlights would stay on. The stranger chuckled wryly.  


“Yeah, my phone and my bike are both dead, so a little assistance would be great.” His dark purple eyes _(seriously??)_ gave Lance an analyzing once-over as he approached. Lance remembered suddenly that he was still wearing a fancy white button-down and his black slacks; he probably looked like some pompous banker's kid trying to fake his way through an internship. Then he remembered that he was driving an old beat-up Corolla that could have passed for an artifact in the nineties. Well, at least he would make an interesting first impression.  
Lance fished his phone out of his pocket and handed it to the biker, careful not to touch his gloved fingers.  


“Thanks.” The man yanked off one glove with his teeth.  


_Oh, god. That's not fair.  
_

__

Lance read the text upside-down as the biker typed in the location of the nearest tow service and pulled up the number. A man's voice answered on the other end of the line, but Lance kept his phone's volume down low enough that he couldn't make out the words. The stranger nodded at Lance and strode a few steps away to place his call.  
Over the course of the conversation, Lance scrutinized his target even further, taking in as many details as he could in the light from his own car. The man couldn't have been much older than Lance, and judging by the state of his bike and the clothes he was wearing, didn't seem to be struggling for money. The jacket, pants, and boots all seemed to be made out of genuine leather, a few faded areas revealing where they received the most wear and tear. As he talked, Lance noticed that the man's voice sounded slightly gravelly in a way that went mostly unnoticed in a conversation but appeared whenever he lowered his voice. His hands were dry and a little calloused, like he spent a lot of time handling rough materials. When the man raked a hand through his hair in frustration, Lance was treated to a glimpse of a well-toned abdomen as his shirt hiked up slightly.  


After about three minutes, the biker returned, looking a little tired as he handed Lance back his phone.  


“Thank you.”  


“Yeah, no problem,” Lance replied.  
The stranger scratched the back of his head.  


“My name is Keith, by the way,” he said finally, holding out his ungloved hand.  


“Lance,” he supplied, shaking the offered hand and hoping that his own wasn't sweaty. Keith nodded, as if relieved to get an introduction out of the way.  


“The tow guy said they should be here in ten minutes or so.” Keith leaned back on his motorcycle again.  


“Great...”  
A few seconds of awkward silence stretched out before Lance decided to rescue them both.  


“So what happened?”  
The biker frowned slightly, looking both irritated and baffled at the same time.  


“I have no idea. I was just minding my own business when I heard this weird clanking noise and her engine suddenly felt weirdly hot. I had to pull over before something caught on fire, which was when I noticed that my phone was dead.” He sighed mournfully. “Guess I accidentally left my Bluetooth on before I had a chance to recharge it.”  
Lance's ears perked up.  


“Her?” he asked, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.  


“Yeah, her name is Red,” Keith said, glancing fondly at the motorcycle and running a hand over the seat. Lance raised both eyebrows and looked purposefully at the bike's black plating.  


“Red? I'm assuming that has nothing to do with the motorcycle itself... named after anything in particular?”  
The corners of Keith's eyes crinkled slightly as he laughed (a fact which Lance took no notice of whatsoever.)  


“Short for Little Red Riding Hood, actually.”  
Lance leaned back in incredulity.  


“I'm sorry, what?”  


“I lost a bet,” Keith shrugged. “It involved a bottle and a half of vodka and five grapefruits.”  
Lance's respect for this mysterious biker was growing exponentially, along with the desire to get his number.  


“You're talking to an experienced veteran in the field of drunken bets,” he said, a twinkle in his eye, bowing ever so slightly for dramatic effect.  


“Oh yeah? Like what?”  


He was about to recite a long and harrowing tale when Lance was interrupted by the arrival of the tow truck, its bright yellow headlights veering towards the two of them. Lance backed away a little as the truck came to a stop in front of Keith's motorcycle, the rumbling idle of the engine cutting through the sounds of traffic rushing by.  
A realization came to Lance about halfway through the loading process as Keith helped the operator push his motorcycle onto the back of the truck. Although he pondered for a good five minutes trying to find a way around it, Lance could only think of one solution. He wasn't exactly bothered by it though... Lance watched the two men fasten the bike down with canvas straps, a small grin playing on his face. Keith talked with the truck driver for a minute or two after the motorcycle was secured, and then stepped to the side to watch the truck pull away. It was about two seconds later that he came to the same realization as Lance, turning towards him with an embarrassed air.  


“Uhm, do you think I could hitch a ride home?” 

For the first few minutes, the car was filled with a rather uncomfortable silence as Lance drove them both to Keith's house. The other man had given a few quick directions and a short description of where he lived before they took off. Lance had quickly thrown his discarded clothing items into the backseat, along with a few empty energy drink cans and a crumpled-up ball of old McDonald's receipts. He was just grateful that he had vacuumed out the car recently; at least it was clean, aside from the junk that had now been relocated to the backseat. Keith had buckled himself in, and ever since, had spent a great deal of effort looking out at the city lights as they rushed past his window. Finally --- as before --- Lance broke the silence.  


“So when are you going to get your bike back?” he asked, glancing away from the road for a moment to see Keith jump slightly, not expecting any conversation. Funny, because from what little Lance had seen, Keith didn't strike him as the type of person to be easily startled; Lance wondered what was setting him so on edge. Then again, Keith was riding shotgun in the car of a stranger he had just met about twenty minutes ago, so maybe Lance couldn't blame him.  


“I'm not really sure, but it shouldn't be very long. I asked if the mechanic could just take it back to his shop and make an assessment, figure out what's wrong, and then tell me whats up when I come and pick it up. There's no sense in paying somebody else to fix something that I can work on myself.”  


So this guy had some skill as a mechanic. Lance knew how to do most of the essentials: change a tire, troubleshoot a battery, restart a car without using jumper cables, etc... but to be honest, most of his experience came from wrecking vehicles, not fixing them.  


“How will you get it back?” he asked.  


“Oh, my brother's got a pretty big truck. I can just ask to borrow it tomorrow when he gets off of work.” Keith was beginning to look a little more comfortable now and was no longer pressing himself up against the window.  


“You have a brother?” Lance enquired, reverting his attention back to the road. “What's he like?”  


“Shiro's great. He's been through some shit, but he's always been there for me whenever he can,” Keith began, but paused at the confused expression on Lance's face.  


“Wait... Shiro?”  


It wasn't exactly a common name, even in a city as diverse as theirs.  


“Like... Takashi Shirogane, Shiro?”  


Keith turned his head to look at Lance directly, a little shocked.  


“How did you know that?”  


“Oh my god. No way.” Raucous laughter began to bubble up in Lance's throat. “There is no way Dorito Dad Shiro is your brother.”  


“Dorito Dad?!!” Keith spluttered indignantly. Lance opened his mouth to explain, but Keith raised a hand to cut him off, shaking his head. “Nevermind, I don't even want to know. What I _do_ want to know is, how the hell do you know my brother?!”  


“Well, I don't exactly know him super well, but his girlfriend Allura is one of my best friends,” Lance admitted, shrugging.  


“But they've been dating for like two years, how can we never have met? No, wait...”  


“Wait what?”  


“I just moved here on campus a month ago. I doubt Shiro's had time to introduce me to all of his friends yet, much less his girlfriend's friends,” Keith said, brow furrowed as he tried to take in this new information. Lance began to chuckle again.  
Keith's puzzled expression vanished, his eyebrow raising instead.  


“What now?”  


“It's just... what are the odds?”  
A small huff of agreement sounded from Lance's passenger.  
“What are the odds that, a: your bike breaks down in the middle of traffic, b: I decide to pull over and help, and c: that we, who should be complete and utter strangers, just so happen to be connected in a weirdly immediate way?”  


“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds kind of creepy,” Keith said.  


“Let's not, I'm trying to revel in the joy of being involved in one of the universe's great coincidences.”  


“You do that,” Keith snorted, glancing back out his window. “Oh, turn right at this stop sign,” he instructed a few moments later, poking the glass with a finger. A tiny circle of steam radiated out from his fingerprint onto the cold glass.  


“Yessir.” Lance jerked the wheel on purpose, swinging onto a side street and laughing as Keith flew forward, landing with his elbow in a cupholder.  
Keith looked absolutely aghast.  


“What was that for?!”  


“Shits and giggles, of course,” Lance replied, smirking. In all honesty, he had just wanted to get a reaction out him; that expression was pretty priceless.  


“Whatever,” Keith grumbled, folding his arms. “My house is just up here on the left, it's the one with the red front door.”  


Sure enough, the door to Keith's home was a dark maroon color that almost matched its brick walls. Turning much more gently this time, Lance pulled his car into a very short driveway, stopping just before the white garage door. Although it was almost entirely dark at this point, Lance could still tell that the house was well kept, its modest front lawn neatly trimmed, a short row of boxwood bushes sitting beneath the window. Keith reached into the backseat for his helmet and propped it on his lap.  


“Well, thanks for the ride,” he said, looking at Lance with a faint smile. Lance's heart fluttered obnoxiously.  


“Yeah, no problem,” he replied. “I'll probably be seeing you eventually anyway.”  


The other man just grinned and unbuckled his seatbelt, stepping out of the car with a loud creak of leather. Lance watched his lean figure attentively as Keith climbed up a set of concrete steps to the porch and fished through his pockets for a set of keys. With a tilt of the head and one last smirk, Keith unlocked his front door, waved a hand in farewell, and stepped inside.  


_Well, that's that,_ Lance thought, and he backed out of the driveway. 

(That was not, in fact, that.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably keep adding tags as we go on; I'm not 100% sure what I will or won't be able to write in the future, so I apologize if I end up writing stuff that you guys weren't prepared for. This and the next chapter were meant to just be one, but it ended up being too long, so I had to split it in two; don't worry, the action will pick up in the next chapter. (For the curious, Pidge is 20 here.) Also, for the sake of the story, Lotor and his family will have a very non-canon dynamic here, partially to make Lotor a better villain for this piece. I couldn't work with Zarkon because he just didn't ave enough emotional pull for me to write on.  
> Edit: This has nothing to do with the fanfic whatsoever but I've been listening to Fall Out Boy's new album and I'm so pumped it's been so long since some of my favorite bands have released new music

The next morning, a very grumpy Lance awoke at six o'clock, snatching his phone from the bedside table the instant his alarm sounded.  


_BEEP  
_

__

_BEEP  
_

__

_BEE ---  
_

__

Lance knew that most human beings were decidedly not morning people. They would get up, moaning and groaning, blinking blearily and trying to figure out where they were for the first fifteen minutes of the day. While Lance definitely didn't fit into the “morning person” category, he had never fallen prey to any of these patterns. Yes, he hated every waking minute until about ten o-clock in the morning. Yes, he would snap at everyone in sight until he had at least consumed some coffee and a bagel. But he had never been the type to slouch around. Lance sprang out of bed fully awake and fully aware that he would not be going back to sleep. It had always been this way; while many of his friends could shake it off and sleep through six alarms, Lance had the inability (and sometimes the debilitation,) to fall back asleep once he was properly roused.  


Sighing, Lance slipped out of bed, stretched, and headed into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He scrutinized himself in the mirror as white toothpaste foam dribbled down his chin. Under normal circumstances, he would go through the full routine --- exfoliating, gentle cleansing, toner, moisturizing --- to get rid of the dark circles under his eyes, but today there was no time. Lance quickly showered, brushed his hair, threw on a fresh pair of clothes and some running shoes, and grabbed a banana from his kitchen before heading out.  


A soft pink sunrise glowed above the rooftops as he drove downtown to the bar. Lance pressed the gas pedal: morning rush hour was just about to start, and he couldn't afford to be caught in traffic just now. Still slightly hazy, he shook his head to clear both his thoughts and his vision. He had shit to do. 

 

As a kid, Lance had always loved taking risks. He would climb to the thinnest branches of a tree. His bicycle knew no speed limits. Roller coasters were his absolute favorite, especially if they rocked and clacked dangerously. But the older he got, the harder it became to obtain any rush of adrenaline; the trees were never high enough, his bicycle couldn't go fast enough, and the roller coasters no longer offered a thrill. Sure, he still enjoyed all of those things --- Lance could ride a coaster fifteen times in one day, whooping the entire time --- but it was never out of fear, and to be honest, they relaxed him more than anything. This outlook on life had landed Lance in more trouble than he cared to admit. He had narrowly avoided juvie many times for stupid things like jumping from tall monuments or shooting a BB gun at the neighbors' mailboxes. His mother was often at her wits end, washing his grass-stained jeans, patching up sprained ankles, and placating both the cops and the neighbors on multiple accounts.  


In other words, Lance was an adrenaline junkie.  


He had never had the money to try all the new and exciting things that most thrill seekers would to take out their energy, like BASE jumping or skydiving or climbing tall cliffs. Thus it had been an immense relief when he had been recruited by the bosses of Voltron, who spied his talent when Rolo, out on an errand one morning, had run into the cops as they were leaving Lance's house and noticed that the BB bullets in the neighbor's mailboxes were perfectly aligned inside the numbers from fifty yards away. Lance felt a little hesitant to join a mob at first, but after prolific assurance that he would not be injuring any “good guys” (and would rake in a fair amount of cash,) he was swayed. He began working on the kitchen staff at the age of seventeen, and, two years later, had earned enough to buy himself a car and rent his own apartment. Lance rose in rank when he discovered a special talent for singing, which allowed the bar to provide extra high-class entertainment. Since then, he had been saving his money carefully, biding his time until he could purchase a high-class downtown condo.  


His current apartment kind of sucked. “Monochromatic nineteen-eighties” seemed to be the design theme, with an entirely white kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom, including the tile flooring. Although he kept it clean, there were still some spots where the wallpaper peeled or watermarks flourished on the ceiling. But these trials would soon come to an end; at the age of twenty-three, six years after beginning his career in the Voltron mob, Lance was almost ready to live like a king. 

 

“---nd do keep an eye on Sendak while you're there. The East Side has grown rather restless over the past few months, and we wouldn't want any trouble,” Alfor was saying, glaring down at the map spread out on his desk. The white-haired man had planted both arms firmly on either side of the map, preventing its sides from curling in. He and Lance's other boss, Zarkon, were just finishing up the briefing --- which Lotor, who was to accompany Lance on his trip, had failed to attend.  


Zarkon's hulking figure shifted as he stood up from a leaning position against the wall behind his partner. His brutish nose, chiseled facial structure, and scarred lips had always reminded Lance of a boulder; but the man had never treated Lance badly, only with cold authority. If he had to pick one to share a drink with, Lance would choose Alfor any day.  


“And ensure Lotor behaves himself,” the larger man added in his deep, rumbling voice. “He has shown a remarkable irresponsibility, refusing to arrive at work on time.”  


Lance nodded.  


“Yes, sir.”  


Alfor sighed and ran a hand through his beard.  


“Well, I do believe that's everything. Rolo already packed the merchandise into the van out back last night, and you know the drill from there,” he said, glancing up to catch Lance's nod of confirmation.  


“I've got it, sir.”  


Lance saluted to the pair of men and backed away to slip open the back panel. He stepped into the main dining room of the bar to wait for his coworker, the hushed voices fading behind him as his bosses continued their discussion. 

Morning sunlight had just begun to stream through the glass doors that opened into the foyer. Lance went to the bar and pulled up a stool, still in the darkened area of the room. Rings of upside-down chairs rested atop the circular tables, which had been pushed to the sides of the room after closing to make room for vacuuming. Twirling a little on his bar stool, Lance tugged his phone out of his jeans pocket and checked the screen.  


<3 Thot <3 15m ago  


iMessage  


He swiped down to see several more notifications from “<3 Thot <3” and quickly punched in his passcode. 

<3 Thot <3: 6:37 AM: hey  


<3 Thot <3: 6:37 AM: hey  


<3 Thot <3: 6:37 AM: heeeeeyyyyyyyyy  


<3 Thot <3: 6:38 AM: hey Lance  


<3 Thot <3: 6:39 AM: answer my texts you cretin  


Firecrotch: 7:04 AM: what do u want Pidge  


Firecrotch: 7:04 AM: its like the asscrack of dawn why are u up  


<3 Thot <3: 7:05 AM: too late im already on my way  


<3 Thot <3: 7:05 AM: I never went to sleep  


Firecrotch: 7:06 AM: on your way where??? and thats a terrible habit youre gonna get sick and die  


<3 Thot <3: 7:09 AM: you left your jacket at my house after LOTR movie night, im bringing it by. Plus I wanted to ask you something  


Firecrotch: 7:09AM: I'm at work  


Firecrotch: 7:10 AM: also u shouldnt be texting and driving thats stupid  


<3 Thot <3: 7:14 AM: dont get your panties in a knot, im texting at stop lights and stuff, obviously  


<3 Thot <3: 7:15 AM: also I know  


Firecrotch: 7:16AM: how the hell would u know im at work?? I never take a shift this early  


<3 Thot <3: 7:20 AM: …. I may or may not have checked your snapchat location  


Firecrotch: 7:20 AM: thats a filthy lie I dont have any of my location services turned on  


<3 Thot <3: 7:21 AM: ;)  


Firecrotch: 7:21 AM: piDGE  


<3 Thot <3: 7:24 AM: im outside  


<3 Thot <3: 7:24 AM: I washed the jacket for you, youre welcome, it had a bunch of popcorn grease on it 

A loud rapping on the glass made Lance look up from his phone. Leaning with their face pressed against the doors was a tiny figure encased in an enormous green pullover, thick tufts of auburn hair poking out of the hood. A huge round pair of wire-framed glasses slid up onto Pidge's forehead as they scrunched up their nose and dragged it down the door, providing Lance with a lovely view up their nostrils. He made an exaggeratedly disgusted face and rose to let them in. Pidge stayed leaning against the glass as the doors swung open, letting their full weight fall forward until they face-planted into Lance's stomach.  


“Good to see you too, kiddo,” Lance chuckled.  


“Mmmff.”  


“Alright, get off, your glasses are gonna dig a hole in my sternum.”  


Pidge grunted again, but pushed themselves off to stand up, although they still didn't reach much higher than Lance's chest.  


“It's okay, you would just get a new bellybutton,” they said, shoving Lance's sweater into his hands and slipping past him towards the bar.  


Lance huffed and swung around.  


“Well excuse you, but I just so happen to like my old one perfectly fine, thank you very much.”  


Pidge just shrugged as they rummaged among the liquor cabinets, eventually popping up with a bottle of beer in each hand. Lance waved off the invitation; he didn't need his senses to be impaired today.  


“Are you sure it's wise to be drinking this early in the morning?” Lance asked, watching Pidge pop off the cap with a bottle opener. Admittedly, they were underage; but Pidge had such a high tolerance for alcohol, and had been so stubborn about it, that Lance eventually gave up trying to mother them for it.  


“I never went to sleep, remember?” They took a small sip. “So technically this is just really, really late at night for me.”  


“I'm not sure that's how it works, Pidgeotto.”  


They rolled their eyes dramatically.  


“Of course it is. My body, my time zone.”  


“You're going to die at the ripe old age of thirty.”  


“Oh thank god, I thought I was gonna have to wait for unaffordable healthcare to take me down.”  


Lance smiled and resumed his seat at the bar opposite Pidge, setting his phone down on the counter beside their beer and tying the sweater around his waist. Despite having pulled an all-nighter, Pidge still looked their regular mischievous self, their long, slender fingers drumming on the countertop and their hazel eyes glinting like an owl on steroids.  


“So what was it you wanted to ask me?” he prodded.  


“Oh, yeah!” They looked up from their drink excitedly. “So I was texting Hunk last night and he mentioned that you had a run-in with Keith?”  


Lance threw his hands up in the air.  


“Don't tell me you somehow know this guy, too?!!”  


Pidge grinned and tipped the neck of their bottle at Lance, liquor almost sloshing onto the bar.  


“Ahh, but I do, _mi amigo._ He's Shiro's brother, right? Well, he and Hunk are like, best buddies, and sometimes Hunk brings him to our study sessions or when we go out to lunch. I think he just needs some company, to be honest,” they said.  


“....Okay, but I still don't see why this was an important question for you to ask me..?”  


Pidge held up a finger to shush him and carried on.  


“SO, Hunk and I got to talking, and we were thinking, all of us know each other, right? I mean, with the exception of you and Keith, pretty much. Allura knows Hunk and me quite well through you, and obviously she sees plenty of Keith, what with him and Shiro being practically inseparable and all. Hunk being Hunk, he's managed to make best buddies of just about everybody, and the only people breaking up what could be a lovely little circle of friends are yourself and Mr. Kogane.”  


“Wait, Kogane?”  


They paused, hand still in the air.  


“Yeah, did you not learn his full name the other night?”  


Lance shook his head.  


“Nope. But when I learned that he was Shiro's brother, I guess I just assumed they had the same last name,” he answered, brow furrowing.  


“Nah, Keith's adopted. He just never chose to take on his new family's last name, I suppose. I don't know the reason why, though.” They peered at Lance intently. “And don't pry.”  


Placing his hand over his chest, Lance gasped as if wounded.  


“I wouldn't dream of it.”  


Then; “You were saying?”  


“Anyway, Hunk and I have both agreed that we all need to go out on a day-trip somewhere, have an adventure. Lord knows we could all use the break. We were thinking hiking, or something? And before you object,” they added quickly, “the weather is supposed to be lovely this weekend, pretty much perfect temperatures and completely sunny, so you don't have to worry about bugs or humidity or whatever.”  


“Well, that's a relief. But how are we going to get there?” Lance asked.  


Pidge nudged their glasses up their nose slightly, taking another sip of beer with a pondering air.  


“I guess we could borrow my mom's minivan, we'd fit all six of us in there easily, I should think.”  


“I am not ---”  


“Oh, cut the shit,” they interrupted, although they were smirking. “You don't have anybody to impress, nobody's gonna care about your reputation even if you're caught riding around in a soccer mom minivan.”  


_But I do have somebody to impress,_ Lance thought in sour amusement --- but his misgivings completely vanished when he remembered that Keith was a motorcycle-driving, leather-clad, poker-faced, badass individual. If Pidge could wrangle Keith into scrunching himself into a minivan, Lance could see no reason why he wouldn't make the sacrifice as well.  


“So when exactly are you guys planning for this to happen?” he asked, staring at Pidge's halfway-empty bottle.  


“Shiro has already agreed to drive us all if we can have everybody up and at a meeting point at seven thirty on Saturday morning,” they replied. Lance groaned at the prospect of another early rising, but when he considered the matter, decided that the rewards would outweigh the lack of sleep. It had been far too long since he'd had a day to relax with people whose company he genuinely enjoyed.  


“Alright then, that sounds doable. Will you text me once you get everybody's input?” Lance requested.  


“Yeah, definitely. H ---”  


Whatever Pidge had been about to say was cut off by the sound of the front doors opening. A chilly gust of wind swirled into the dining room, causing the hair on Lance's arms to rise as an eddy of fall leaves twirled into the foyer. By this time, yellow chunks of sunshine had washed their way onto the floor, glowing off of the short red carpeting. Unfortunately, the sight they illuminated was not one Lance particularly desired to see; His Royal Douchebaggery, Prince Lotor himself. Pidge glanced up from their drink, wrinkling their nose at the newcomer with obvious distaste as he swaggered up to the duo seated at the bar.  


“Ah, Lance, drinking on the job again?” Lotor smirked, swiping Pidge's beer off of the counter and taking a long draft. Lance glanced at Pidge, but their brow was just furrowed in annoyance, as if they knew that it wouldn't be worth it to call him out. Hot anger billowed up inside of Lance like volcanic steam. Pidge had been one of his best friends for over ten years, ever since they met in detention in sixth grade (yes, classic.) And for as long as Lance had worked at Voltron, Lotor had treated them like shit. Lance knew exactly why; it was because Lotor was a self-absorbed, bigoted, ignorant asshole and if somebody was different from himself, they were lesser. After about twelve confrontations, Lance lost track of the number of times he and Lotor had been forcefully separated by their bosses. Lotor would never be fired because of his status as Zarkon's son, and Lance had been loyal to Alfor for far too long for his service to be thrown away. On this particular morning, Lance had been so distracted by his own thoughts that he had forgotten to warn Pidge of Lotor's impending arrival.  


_You fucking idiot,_ he thought, mentally smacking himself upside the head.  


“Piss off, Lotor,” Lance sighed, grabbing the beer bottle out of his hands and placing it back on the counter in front of Pidge, who looked disgustedly at the place where Lotor's lips had been. They snatched it up by two fingers and dropped it in the trash can behind the bar before circling the counter to stand quietly at Lance's side. Lotor sneered and exhaled for so long out of his nose that it almost turned into a growl.  


“Ahh, don't be like that, you know we do have to cooperate today,” he said silkily.  


Lance threw him a deadpan stare.  


“Pity nobody waited for me at the briefing, I would have so loved to be informed... it looks like you'll have to catch me up.”  


“You're an hour late.”  


“Bah. We all know Father plans for this.”  


Sadly, that statement was true. Alfor and Zarkon had grown so used to Lotor's failures of schedule that they usually allowed an hour and a half of leeway between “call time” and the actual meetings. With any other employee, this would be intolerable; but for his only child, Zarkon never seemed to dole out any punishment at all.  
Lance sighed.  


“I'll tell you the important bits on the way there. You should invest in a watch, maybe then your nanny wouldn't be burdened with the task of herding you everywhere.”  


He knew instantly that he had made a mistake. The white-haired man bristled up like a bobcat, zeroing in instantly on Pidge. Lotor knew that he could rail on Lance for as long as he liked without bothering him; but when Lance's friends were threatened, it infuriated him to his core. Lotor's gaze raked up and down Pidge's figure, who shifted uncomfortably next to Lance as they realized where the conversation was going.  


“I see you've brought the gremlin,” he sneered, narrowing his eyes as if he had just now noticed them standing two feet away. In the corner of his vision, Lance saw Pidge's body tense.  


_Oh shit._  


Lotor continued running his mouth, this time speaking directly to Pidge.  


“Good lord, child, what are you wearing? A beanbag?” he chuckled. “You can hardly see anything under that... but I suppose that would be the binder, wouldn't it? Heaven knows you'd look so much better if you just let the ladies hang free.”  


There was a deadly silence as Pidge stared Lotor directly in the eye for three full seconds, long enough for Lance to hear the blood pounding in his ears. Then a loud crack echoed through the room, and it took Lance another second to realize that Pidge had slapped Lotor across the face with all their almighty wrath. They stepped back with an expression that seemed simultaneously furious and afraid, but with their body in a fighting stance, ready to strike again. Lotor touched a hand to his face and Lance couldn't tell if the flush spreading across his cheek was due to anger, the force of Pidge's blow, or a combination of the two.  


Springing up off of his barstool, Lance planted himself in front of Pidge. While they could usually hold their own in a fight, Lotor was another class altogether; he had been part of his father's mob since birth, and Lance was a first-hand witness to the violence that had become Lotor's second nature. He had just braced himself for the inevitable when the trio was interrupted by the entrance of Alfor and Zarkon, who had most likely heard them talking and decided to intervene at the sound of the slap. Lance wanted to kowtow at the men's feet for their brilliant timing. Zarkon strode over and placed his hand on his son's shoulder, leading away a tomato-red Lotor into the back room, hopefully to be lectured. Sighing, Alfor turned to Lance and waved him away towards the exit.  


“Bye Pidge, text me later, okay?” Lance called over his shoulder as he walked away. They nodded, slipping their hands into their pockets. The corner of the hallway cut Lance off from the dining room, and he frowned as he faced forward again, following Alfor to the back exit. Although he felt a little concerned about Pidge right now, he knew that they were tough. They had attacked Lotor because of his insolence, not because they were hurt by the venom he spewed out.  


The morning sunlight had not yet reached the back of the building, which was encased in shadow all the way out to Voltron's parking lot. The bar's high brick walls were studded with an occasional patch of moss. Three steel trash cans squatted at the corner next to a copper downspout. Alfor led Lance outside and gestured towards a dark green van idling on the pavement.  


“There's your ride.”  


He paused, and looked at Lance with concern in his wrinkled blue eyes. “Are you entirely sure you two will survive being penned up in a vehicle together for any length of time?”  


“Yeah, I can handle him,” Lance replied, half-laughing, half-sighing.  


One of Alfor's bushy white eyebrows shot into his hairline, but all he said was,  


“Well, if you think you can manage,” and tossed Lance a set of keys. The metal jangled as they sailed through the air before landing against his palm with a snap.  


“Thanks, sir.”  


Alfor inclined his head slightly; he smiled, turned, and stepped back into the bar.  


Striding over towards the van, Lance rounded the back of the vehicle and swung open its hatch. Several long canvas golf bags lay stacked atop each other in the trunk, their leather straps and zippers slightly tangled together. He placed a hand on top of the fabric to feel what was underneath.  


Yup, these were the guns.  


This would be an interesting trip.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to force myself to wait a while before publishing this one: I literally got into a writing frenzy and churned it all out the day after I posted that last chapter...  
> Also apologies for the lame ending I might edit it later

Fortunately for their schedule, Lotor reappeared after only five minutes of waiting. He stepped to the back of the van and opened up the hatch, checking the merchandise just as Lance had done. Lance turned his head to appraise his fellow gunrunner as Lotor slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door. The mark on his cheek had faded back to its usual teakwood color, and the expression on his face appeared much more calm. Lance wondered whether Zarkon's words had been reprimanding; but again, one could only hope. Lotor's long white hair obscured his features as he turned his head away from Lance, showing no sign of speaking.  


_Thank god, at least we might get a peaceful car ride.  
_

Blue plastic dice dangled down from the rearview mirror, clicking against each other as Lance switched the gears to reverse and backed out of the parking lot. He had shifted the driver's seat backwards slightly to accommodate his legs. Lance fidgeted uncomfortably; he wished he had put a bit more thought into his wardrobe before he left, as the jeans were proving to be a rather impractical choice. This new pair felt stiff and constricting, and if it came down to it, Lance wasn't sure if he'd be able to run as fast as he liked. The van bounced enthusiastically as they crossed the dip in between the lot and the road, unbalanced by the weight in its trunk. Lance swung the wheel to the left, and the vehicle took off towards Sendak's stomping ground. 

__

Half an hour later, the silence in the car was beginning to wear on Lance's nerves. Over the course of two days, he had been the driver in two semi-uncomfortable car rides --- only the first one had ended well, and he had been accompanied by an actually tolerable human being. Lance would give almost anything to switch Keith for Lotor just now.  


Their hunter green van trundled down a narrow road lined with tiny, tired-looking houses whose paint was peeling and the roofing in desperate need of repair. The sidewalk pavement was cracked and, in many areas, entirely missing, with battered-looking dandelions creeping up in the crevices. Several bicycles lay in various stages of rust on worn concrete porches. At the far end of the road, children's voices laughed and called to each other, and Lance watched a basketball sail across the street several blocks ahead. The voices hushed as their van approached. By the time Lance reached the spot, the only evidence of childhood play was an assortment of toy cars arranged in rows on the sidewalk and the lone basketball, rolling slowly against the curb. Lance felt a pang in his chest for these kids, whose first instinct at the sight of an unfamiliar vehicle was to disappear.  


He remembered that feeling all too well.  


As they drove on, Lance saw few other signs of life aside from one old, wrinkly _abuelo_ rocking in a wicker chair on his porch, scowling at the van; and once, a young woman through her kitchen window, her hair up in a colorful headscarf, dancing to some unheard music as she dragged a paintbrush down the wall. 

They soon entered the brownfield area. Lance pulled into a small parking lot against the side of an empty three-story building. Three-quarters of the lot were surrounded by a tall chain-link fence, the last side blocked off by the brick wall, which was missing a few windows. Sendak and his backup had already arrived, opening up the gate for the Voltron boys. Lance fervently hoped that they had not been waiting for longer than fifteen minutes.  


He glanced at Lotor as he parked their vehicle at the opposite end of the lot, slowly rolling to a stop.  


“Hey.”  


The other man turned his head sharply.  


“Could you, ya know, be tactical for a bit?”  


Lotor threw him a poisonous stare.  


“I am nowhere near inexperienced at this, Lance. Fuck off.”  


Lance just pursed his lips before shutting off the engine and pocketing the keys. As the duo stepped out of the van, Sendak and his accomplices approached at a leisurely pace. Lance squinted, quickly analyzing the newcomers. Besides their leader, the five other large, burly men appeared to be unarmed. Not that it much appeased Lance's discomfort at being so outnumbered; their natural arms looked like they could do quite a bit of damage without the aid of firearms. He glanced over at his own companion. Lotor watched the men with a practiced eye, and Lance wondered if Lotor noticed anything that he himself might have missed.  


“Any greetings from the overseers at Voltron?” Sendak called out as he strode forward. From the few times he had interacted with the mercenary, something about Sendak gave Lance a bad taste in his mouth. The man's coarse, bestial face was rooted on a neck the size of a tree trunk, which in turn connected to a body that was unfortunately proportionate to the neck. A small, circular mechanical device embedded itself beneath his brow where his right eye should have been. His voice rumbled in a ferine purr, reminding Lance oddly of Zarkon.  


“Yeah, the bosses say hello,” Lance replied in a quieter tone, as the group had reached them. Sendak nodded.  


“And I assume you bring the weapons as agreed?”  


“Twenty in total.”  


“And we also assume that you've brought the money, in cash, that is owed?” Lotor cut in smoothly. The other man grunted and jerked his head at one of his henchmen, who stepped forward and handed Lotor a bulky envelope. The corners of his mouth turned up as Lotor split open the seal and ruffled through its contents, counting the bills.  


“Perfect,” he announced, slipping the envelope into an inside pocket in the lining of his coat.  


“The guns are in the trunk, in four hockey bags,” Lance said.  


“Hax, Yurak, you heard the man. Go unload the guns, and use caution,” Sendak commanded. The two parties to Lance's left detached from the group to obey the order. Lotor shifted next to Lance as the men slung a bag over each shoulder, carried the guns to one of two sedans parked about sixty feet away, and began to count them. Leaning back against the van's side door, Lance slipped his hands into his pockets and hummed quietly to himself as he watched. This was the weirdest part; waiting around out of politeness until the exchange was completed, too detached to make small talk and too tense to relax. Sendak seemed entirely unconcerned with the duo in front of him, his head turned and his focus entirely on the procedure behind him.  


As the moments wore on, Lotor seemed to grow increasingly uncomfortable. Although he was several inches taller than Lance, he seemed to shrink slightly, rubbing his thumb along his index finger in a nervous motion. His brow was furrowed and his lips were pressed together in a thin line. Lance stared at him, perplexed, before making eye contact and realizing the truth. Lance felt his expression switch from confusion to horror in a split second. His blood ran hot and cold at the same time, as if somebody had injected liquid nitrogen into his veins. Mouth falling open slightly, Lance swung his head back towards the men at the sedan, who were still rifling through the hockey bags.  


_Oh, you absolute motherfucker._  


“Hey, boss,” one of the lackeys called, “We've got a couple guns missing.”  


Sendak's gaze jerked back to Lotor and Lance, who immediately masked their tell-tale expressions with those of cold disinterest. Not fast enough. The giant man had caught the split second faces of guilt and alarm before they were covered up. His scarred features curled into a snarl.  


“You think you can swindle a thief?” he growled, stepping forward until his face was inches away. “Whose idea was this, yours, or your superiors'?”  


“Sir, I think we may have come to a misunderstanding,” Lance began in a placating tone, but he was cut off by another spout of rage.  


“This is no misunderstanding. This is a matter of respect.”  


Lance had to suppress the urge to wipe spittle off of his nose.  


“Relax, Sendak.” Lotor said disdainfully. “My coworker can be... unfortunately deceitful. I shall personally arrange for your reimbursement, and it will be as if this little mishap never happened.”  


The implications of Lotor's words suddenly hit him.  


_What. The. Fuck._  


Sendak glanced back at Lance to see him staring at his colleague with total outrage.  


“Hmph,” he sniffed, and stepped away. Then the mercenary drew back his arm and punched Lotor in the gut faster than Lance could blink. The next few moments seemed to happen in slow motion.  


In the corner of his vision, Lance could see Lotor doubled over, hacking and coughing. The men loading up the sedan dropped what they were doing and dashed over towards their boss. Adrenaline rushed through Lance's veins, a feeling which _almost_ made him whisper a gleeful, _“yes.”_ His mind switched instantly to combat mode. Rule number one of belonging to the Voltron mob: take no shit. If somebody hits you, hit them back harder.  


Lance braced his back and forearms against the side of the van and brought both legs up to his chest in one swift kick, planting both feet in the center of Sendak's chest with enough force to send him flying back on the pavement. The man's head smacked against the ground painfully, where he lay dazed. The other three henchmen surged forward, but Lotor was not as injured as he seemed. He whipped a long black knife out of his boot and swung upwards at the thug closest to him, who shouted in pain as a long red gash ripped open from kneecap to thigh, splitting his quadriceps down the middle. Bright droplets of blood splattered on the pavement. Lance ducked under the outstretched arm of another attacker, wrenching open the front door to the van and reaching for the pistol he had stashed in one of the cupholders. A rough hand grabbed the back of his jacket. Lance kicked backwards, and there was a nasty crunch as the edge of the car door smashed into somebody's face. He whirled around, still rummaging under the seat, and pulled out a silencer, quickly fixing it to the muzzle of his gun. Outside the van, Lotor had managed to knock the first thug unconscious, and was bracing himself for another assault. Lance shoved the feet of his victim out from underneath the van door and slammed it behind him. By this time, the fight had moved father away from their vehicle, and Lotor stood about twenty feet away, taking a beating from three assailants at once. One of the men seemed to be freshly missing an eye, and the unconscious one with the slashed leg didn't look like he was getting up. Lance turned to Sendak, who was rising off of the ground with a growl, but paused at yet another grunt of pain behind him. He felt sorely tempted to let Lotor fend for himself --- but then decided that he had enough explaining to do when they got back without dragging a dead body behind him as well.  
Lance turned and sprinted, taking a flying leap into the air from about eight feet away. His left leg hooked around the neck of the closest man, and Lance twisted in midair, knocking the criminal backwards and face-first onto the ground. He used the momentum from their fall to apply his weight firmly onto the man's neck, squeezing it between his calf and thigh until the man passed out. Swinging upwards, Lance drove his elbow into the kneecap of the figure to his right, who turned out to be the man missing an eye. The thug crumpled to the ground, and Lance mercifully knocked him out with a quick blow to the side of his head. He glanced upwards to see the last man desperately fending off Lotor's blade with his forearms. Several nicks and cuts already decorated his chest and face, but the white-haired knifeman seemed to be going in for a killing blow.  


“Lotor!” Lance called. “We don't want any deaths today, remember?”  


Furrowing his brow in displeasure, Lotor seemed to take the hint, kneeing his opponent in the crotch and using the hilt of his knife to strike under the man's jaw. He went down like a sack of bricks.  


Several yards away, Sendak had finally risen to his feet.  


“I ...will … _pulverize you_ ,” he roared, planting himself sturdily between the duo and their van. Lance calmly raised his gun and pointed it at the mercenary's head.  


“I really don't think you will,” he said, staring the other man directly in the eye.  


“You will return to your superiors and explain to them that you have made a mistake. You failed to be patient, and in doing so, you really pissed off the Voltron crew.” Lance cocked his head to the side. “You will also inform them that they will no longer have our business so long as you are the negotiator at any future meetings.”  


He strode over towards Sendak, still leveling the gun at his forehead.  


“Sadly, we obviously cannot trust you to behave yourself as we take our leave. Apologies for the hospital bills.”  


And before he could react, Lance slammed the butt of his gun against Sendak's temple. His foe dropped to the ground with a satisfying thud.  


Breathing hard, Lance turned towards Lotor, who was still standing where Lance had left him, wiping the blood off of his blade with a handkerchief.  


“Why.” Lance demanded, his voice sharper than the knife. Lotor sighed. Despite having taken a rather heavy blow to the stomach, his breathing didn't seem labored. Pity.  


“I had hoped that we could save some time and money by stashing away a few extra weapons. I wasn't aware they would be counting the merchandise at the exchange.”  


“They always count the merchandise!” Lance snapped. “I thought you said you were experienced with this shit!”  


“I am!” Lotor countered angrily, shoving the knife back into his boot. “Things just... didn't go according to plan.”  


“Screw your plans. You're helping me clean up this mess.” Lance snarled. He nudged Sendak's unconscious body with his toe. “We have to pack all of these guys up into their cars so nobody drives by and thinks there's been a shooting.”  


“Nobody even passes here, that's why we chose the damn spot,” Lotor protested, but he bent down to heave one of the henchmen over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.  


“And Lotor?” Lance called.  


The other man turned to look at him with poison in his gaze.  


“If you ever throw me under the bus like that again, I will slit your fucking throat.”  


Lotor merely flashed him a crooked grin before turning back to his task. 

Several minutes and a stubbed toe later, the two gunrunners had loaded all six of their victims into the sedans, having thrown them rather carelessly onto the seats. Lance graciously decided to arrange their limbs into more natural positions so as to not attract attention. Shifting and sighing, he resolved with dismay that the jeans had proved to be a terrible choice indeed; he had ripped the seat during the fight, and the thin fabric had done little to cushion his knees from his hard fall on the pavement. He would probably have a nasty bruise there tomorrow. Lance turned to look at Lotor as he brushed off his jacket. Of all the stupid stunts Zarkon's son had ever pulled, Lance had never expected this one. Usually Lotor wasn't so... reckless. Every action he made was carefully calculated, every step and every proposition. For him to purposefully endanger their mission was suspiciously out of character, and Lance wasn't sure he bought the whole “saving time and money” excuse. He made a mental note to keep a careful eye on the man in the future. This would definitely be reported to Alfor; Lance didn't entirely trust Zarkon to keep proper emotional distance from it, based on his previous experiences with Lotor's godforsaken bullshittery. Of course, the entire mission report would be presented before both bosses, but Lance knew fully well that Lotor would never let him speak about his mistakes in front of Zarkon. The young man had a desperate need to prove himself, to make his father proud. Lance understood that; he himself had never completely explained his job to his own parents, but preferred to leave it at “waiter-turned-singer who made a weird amount of money.” This didn't mean he excused Lotor's behavior, though. Lance also knew first-hand that you could make a name for yourself without being an asshole, which was something Lotor had yet to learn.  


Lance stooped down and scooped the car keys off of the concrete, which had fallen out of his pocket during the scuffle.  


“Ready to head out?” he sighed, raising his eyebrows at his companion. Lotor still looked miffed, but nodded and turned to climb in the other side of the car. Shading his eyes with his hand, Lance glanced up at the sky. The sun was well up into the sky by now. It was probably about ten-o-clock --- just when Lance wished he had woken up, instead of four hours earlier. Ah, well. Better to have the tough parts of his day over and done with. 

That night, Lance climbed into bed exhausted. Neither boss had taken the news of their little tiff well, Alfor worse than his partner (but that was partially because he knew the whole of it, not just Lotor's watered-down version.) Their superiors had berated them for a good twenty minutes about the virtues of diplomacy before sending them off on lunch break, where Lance and Lotor parted ways, hopefully for a good long while. He received several texts from Pidge and Hunk concerning the events planned for Saturday, to which he responded with enthusiasm. Lance returned to Voltron for the dinner hours, serving and entertaining in turns until about ten-o-clock, when his shift ended. If any of the patrons noticed that he walked with a slight limp, nobody said anything. After the drive home, during which he fought to keep his eyes open, he unlocked his front door, kicked off his shoes, and fell into bed after stripping down to his boxers, too tired to search for proper pajamas.


End file.
